Tag Archives: artistic expression

In my dream,
we are racing along the side
of a dark green edge
of the basin, past where
the scrawny salmon fisheries
have left their rubber crowns,
drifting,
on the salt surface.
The ferry comes through the gut
from the Fundy, between
rocks’ steep gray scales.
Quiet is different, here- only
the ship’s moan of the horn hangs
in the air. As if here, there is never
too much space for the not human.
While the United States exerts
every measurable force against
the wiles of nature, the Canadian
government,
people,
its very national flesh,
have calmly consented to being
cowed by the Earth.
“Don’t mind us,” say the standard-shift
cars, as they bend between swells
of lands carved, in turn, by glacier,
wind,
and time. Erosion,
in its purist form, without pollution
or loggings’ getting involved.
No, here, it makes sense
that water, coupled with sharp
winter air, would rinse layer after layer
from the skeleton that is the land,
until it is nakedly shivering
against its own flat self, as the ferry
slips between, and we run on
towards home.

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This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s
own Daniel Hodgman.

Snake EyesBy: Daniel Hodgman

Gleaming hat in one hand and cream in the other
How many pieces must I drain to build my hotels?
Your cold metallic cars rust
On a belt no longer worthy of any man’s attention.
Your iron
Firmly brims with confidence
But it doesn’t hold to my boot
Pressed on your throat.
Your dogs howl
While rats scavenge
On the lost souls frozen over by my intoxicating winds.
Your shoes tread
Laceless
With material better suited to hang those
South of the loop.
And the freighters in the distance
Further prove
Your ship has long sailed away.

I charge for parking
Because nothing in life is free
And don’t bet your bottom dollar I’ll provide a community chest.
Give me all the railroads.
We’re in Chicago aren’t we?
You kick and scream
But I won’t hear it over the roll of my dye
While my eyes gleam as green
As the turbulent waters in March.
I’m the player, the banker, and a Parker Brother in jest.
I am the cyclical system
And you traverse my square.
I make you watch your back
So long as no one protects your front.
I beckon you over
Watching
As you fall off the boardwalk.

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s
own Abby Conklin.

Work in progress: part IIBy: Abby Conklin

I strapped up with wings
called myself a hero
and jumped off the roof
like I had urgent business
at the bottom. When I drink enough,
I disconnect from the vodka,
like you with your wedding
ring, dangling like a fuck you
to the women to come.
One day, maybe I’ll feel lucky
enough to be questionably lucky,
sleeping in the same bed as someone
I can endure the morning after
being unconscious after
a day of being human after
pretending to know lots of things
in actuality I don’t. I tried
to check my bags at the door.
I tried to fall down, drunk. I tried
to knock, walk in, and sit down
without making a fuss over the size
of the cushion on the chair,
and the clots of dust along its dimples.
I know all the words this time,
I swear. Sweat it out with me.
I love you.

Like this:

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s own Abby Conklin.

Grow (pt 1)By: Abby Conklin

I miss the thing I thought normalcy
was, before I grew up and started
blowing money on booze.
On board games. On getting
laid, and in fact failing to even GET laid.

Men do not look
at me and think “damn.”
Damn
I would like to take her home.
Damn
I wonder if she used to pull
the crusts off sandwiches.
Damn
I would like to know how her skin smells
after she falls asleep.
Damn
I would like to know the sound of her breathing
on one hundred degree days. The way she opens
doors with sticky jambs, or answers
the phone when a telemarketer calls.

“Why does she drink without
the straw,” I want to be wondered
about. “Why is she letting it poke
her cheek every time she goes
to sip off the rim that I wish
was mine?”

Like this:

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s own Abby Conklin.

ConsentBy: Abby Conklin

When you cut into a kiwi fruit kept
in the fridge overnight, sliding knife
through furred skin, things feel easier
than they should. It’s as if, that whole
time you slept, the fruit was wrapping
itself in firmness. Lighting up hair
by hair, until its whole was stretched taut
in anticipation of the warm cup
of your hand, and the betrayal
of its paring knife, at six-something
on an October morning.

When you cut into a kiwi fruit left
out on the counter, however.
Then, after a night spent in the wash
that is Upper Manhattan coming
in through the screen of your kitchen window.

Be prepared.

This fruit has not been slowly drawn
into the farcical comfort of numbness.
It will not give so easily. Flesh,
dimpling under the unkind point
of your steel, will raise an eyebrow
in question. One chance,
it will be saying.
One chance.
Consider the full weight of your action,
balance precarious as it nudges
closer to the surface of a life. Do you know
what you are doing?

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s own Abby Conklin.

Go Fuck YourselfBy: Abby Conklin

I want to vomit
the last two years.
Uproot from my gut
the relationship, break
up, the before plus
its after. The cramped
hiccups of crying
on my apartment floor.
A mind wreaking havoc
at all hours of the day
hazed over with the effort
of being awake. Months-

months

months of fighting
for what turned out
to be nothing. The getting
over, the moving on. Enough
realizations to fill
meeting notes’ margins
on mornings after nights
walled with twisting dreams.
Shaking it all off, trying
to get the blood gone stale
to move.

I want to vomit it all
in my hands- my whole
life since you, and hold
it out as if it is the answer
you seem to still be searching
for. Here.
Here is what I have made
for myself, and did you want
it back, strangling keeper
of dreams? I seem to remember
everything I had being consumed,
teeth first, by you. Here, take
it. Make a meal of your poison:
the ways in which I
do not need you.

Like this:

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s own Abby Conklin.

At the Water CoolerBy: Abby Conklin

I do not know what kind
of jokes you make about
the people you work
with. Maybe their anxiety.
Maybe one OCD gum-chewer’s
jaws, or the leaver-of-stained-
coffee-mugs’ trail through the break
room. There’s a lot to be said
for the things that make us human.
Which is likely why
my coworkers and I stood
at the edge of the indoor
track today, at our students’
summer olympics, cracking
jokes about the rattling nature
of the starting gun.These kids don’t runthis kind of race when they hearthat shit! we laughed. They runas fast as they can from wherever it came from! Jokes
that aren’t jokes when you’ve heard
your coworker wish for a house
in Connecticut. Talked about a window
looking out at her sons playing
in a back yard, instead of pounding down
her auto-locked front door, trying
to get away from playground gunshots.

Like this:

This is Bonus Cut Poetry, a series that features original poems by Bonus Cut staff, artists and YOU! In this series, our mission is to bring people together in poetry, share stories and display wonderful artistic pieces. If you would like to have your poems in the next Bonus Cut Poetry installment, just email us at bonuscut@gmail.com

This installment features Bonus Cut’s own Justin Cook.

between classBy: Justin Cook

“The Temiar Self can be focused on and talked about, not as an autonomous entity, but only in ways that also implicate Other (and vice versa).”—Geoffrey Benjamin

eyelids frozen open, crisp light
permeates lungs, heading to Shamanism,Trance, and Sacred Journeys.
most students shoe gaze, counting
their steps led by sidewalks,
talking to someone through headphones/talking
to themselves—but from afar they peer
with excitement, who could this be?maybe, if we recirculated our vision,
we would recognize the village: that stranger
waving/giving the nod, that snowflake
melting crystal into you, half-moon mouth
carrying her silent conversation.